Homecoming
by Sudonim
Summary: Stranded in an alternate past, Spock Prime yearns to go home, and yet not even he can find a way to do it. How, then, can his long-dead crewmates be here to rescue him?
1. Chapter 1

"_It's like you always said...If something's important enough, you **make** the **time**..."_

Spock isn't sure why these words are in his head, but as he stares out across the gunmetal gray water of the San Francisco bay, the spray of chilly sea water reminds him of a time, ages in his past but still farther back, and yet somehow faintly in the future, when he swam with whales here. There is a hint of familiarity in the tone, he surmises, as if he'd heard it through a PA system or from a television turned well below normal audible range, but any more than that is washed away with the fine misting spray.

It has been 18 short months since the Narada fell back into the temporal rift and stranded him here, and yet it feels an age has passed since he began his work with the Vulcans. Recolonizing an entire species, even one so severely depleted, has proven more challenging than he'd originally calculated, and the longer the process draws on, the more anger mounts.

At first it was only Starfleet asking when they'd have free use of their transport vessels again, as if shuttling refugees around had become not just an inconvenience but a hardship.

Then the Federation had begun pestering him; what sort of aid would these people need? Had adequate surveys been conducted of the new homeworld? Was the planet in contention? Did the environmental chaps get enough time to draw up a cross-section of the indigenous lifeforms before 'tampering' began? What sort of timeline could they expect for relocation to finish?

Worst of all, the elders, as well as several uncharacteristically outspoken Vulcans, had come to him asking if they might suddenly consider finding another planet; this one was far too removed, they'd reasoned, and while it gave them a modicum of privacy and safety, it also meant trade and subsequent taxes would be a major inconvenience. They had also voiced concern over returning to Vulcan Prime to scour for possible artifacts, which the Federation had already barred them from three times.

He thinks of his own homeworld, the real Vulcan, flourishing and oblivious in that far and parallel universe, and cannot help but sigh. In the back of his mind and in all his spare moments he still tries to devise a way of getting back there, but it seems like such a pipe dream now-

His communicator trills angrily, a hornet in his pocket, and as he turns away from the cold, dead ocean, he shakes off the dream and returns to his reality. He has work to do, and the Enterprise won't tolerate his idling.

* * *

A flurry of activity on the bridge greets the tired old Vulcan, but he's more entertained than annoyed. This Kirk may not be the same smirking, coy artisan of escape that his best friend was...is...but he's still a genuinely witty and energetic character. In fact, all the faces he surveys are caricatures of his former life, as if someone has decided to put on a shady puppet show in tribute to a life he technically will never live.

"Bones, we don't have time to wait for another shipment," Kirk is growling, striding heavily from the rear of the bridge to the captain's roost, his footfalls more like sledges striking granite. It is a rare talent both captains share that they can become thunderheads when angered.

"Fine, if you want to give everyone Boruvian varicella, damn-well be my guest," the doctor huffs, turning just as red as Spock remembers the _other_ Bones would become when challenged. Everyone could do as they pleased, as long as they kept their necks out of the sickbay, McCoy had told him on many an occasion-

"It is highly improbable that a simple lack of vaccine would trigger an outbreak, doctor," his young self intones smoothly, appearing from behind him, as if his own shadow had just gained its long-sought freedom.

If any of these people give him reason for disquiet, none are moreso worrisome than his own past self. They are as alien to one another as he'd once been to the plethora of humans he'd served with years ago on the original Enterprise, before the 5-year mission had fully gotten underway, and they were only beginning their acclamation to one another. An emotional Vulcan was not something Spock had ever really considered, and when he'd been confronted with this maverick version of himself, he realized why his forebears had taken such pains to eradicate emotion: He was highly dangerous, completely unstable, and largely unfit for service.

"Keptin, zer is an sheep closink from de base; it wood appear she is goink to mayk to board," the shuddering English of Ensign Chekov interrupts.

Here are two more curious creatures, Spock continues his inner monologue, as he glances at the curved, transparasteel controls at the head of the bridge. A 17-year-old boy and an untested Lieutenant are all that stands between the Enterprise and certain destruction on a regular basis, and yet both of them unquestioningly wear the gold and stripes of command. The Chekov and Sulu he remembers were straight-laced, quick-thinking, intellectual men, men of integrity and courage, not a pair of pubescent flight-school rejects. He is disinclined to be so outright and harsh toward the pair, but after observing their...style...he knows such emotion stems from his acquaintance with what may be their better halves.

And there, the last of the important faces, the red-clad Uhura and Scotty, are pouring over something at the communications array. The two are an unlikely couple, but they are above all his favorite companions among the rabble, and he values their insight. Uhura, just as beautiful as her counterpart and just as intelligent, and Scotty, still the same brash Scottsman he recalls, have been his technical eyes and ears since he was assigned the Enterprise as primary transportation, and if his suspicions are correct, that pointed over-the-shoulder glance from Scotty means they have news for him.

Ignoring the simmering battle so similar to those he's fought himself on just such a bridge, he joins Scotty and Uhura at her workstation.

"Do we have word from Vulcan 1 yet?" Spock asks, referring to the hastily (and temporarily) named refugee planet. They cannot get underway until Vulcan 1 requests them, as per shoddy Federation guidelines surrounding the re-population effort, and as of oh-six-hundred, they had been asked to idle in dry dock. Now, floating just beyond the initial couplings and inertial dampeners, the umbilical of Starfleet still hasn't been cut, but the feeling of unrest is already manifesting itself in the crew (and its captain).

"N...no," Uhura says slowly, the worried look in her eyes making her look considerably older. "We've been asked to bring aboard a shuttle."

"That is not completely unusual," Spock replies, the furrow in his brow growing only slightly deeper. "The doctor has requested a cache of supplies; perhaps Starfleet has determined that their value outweighs our timeliness."

Scotty and Uhura share a quick and troubling look.

"That in'nit tha thing, Ambassador," Scotty says slowly, and the way he lowers his voice and leans forward seems far too conspiratorial for this to be a simple thing like vaccines. "They're requestin' that you go in'meet the shuttle yourself, y'see. Summat important an' secret, we're thinkin', if you asked us. Which, I think y'may want t'consider. Honestly."

Between Scotty's halting speech and Uhura's haunted expression, Spock has a good idea that this is turning into a bad affair.

"Is there any word from Starfleet...officially?" he clarifies, his face stony. "If this is a political matter, they could have contacted me personally-"

"I don't think it is," Uhura interrupts, completely unlike her. "I think it's got to do with...With your, you know, your _home_."

A thought occurs to him, one so outrageous and inconceivable that it sticks immediately on his thought pallet and refuses to let go. He knows it is as absurd as it is unlikely; he disappeared years in the future, a lifetime after the rest. They, they and most of their children, are dead. This is most likely an inquiry, another long interview about the technology aboard his vessel, something completely logical and plausible and routine.

As if in a dream, though, the words play back to him again:

"_The most important reason for climbing a mountain...Because it's there."_


	2. Chapter 2

_No one has **time** for those...who will only stand and wait..._

The low gray vessel coasts through space, a skipped rock on a dark pool but without the jerking hops or astrals of water, as it resolutely ignores the Enterprise's hails. Uhura has not yet alerted Kirk to the security clearance they'd received moments before Chekov's arbitrary sweeps had picked up the unassuming transport as it approached on their starboard anterior, but as the captain brings up an image of the vessel on the main view screen, he begins to understand this is not a shipment of cargo as he'd first guessed. He bites his tongue thoughtfully as his eyebrow quirks, and whatever argument Bones might be trying pursue is lost as he realizes Jim isn't listening to him anymore. Rather, he refocuses his attention on what they now have to deal with.

"Looks like a crew transport," the doctor remarks gruffly, "But I don't remember any personnel requests."

"Nor do I," Spock adds, giving McCoy a look that clearly says, 'It's not your job to do that, now is it, doctor?'

"Uhura, do we have anything on them?" Kirk asks, indicating the vessel with a vague gesture as he swivels in his chair to acknowledge his communications specialist.

Inhaling sharply and glancing furtively at Scotty once again, Uhura replies after a beat: "No sir."

It's a bold-faced lie, but Scotty doesn't call her on it.

The elder Vulcan has already left the bridge, his absence seemingly unnoticed. Only Uhura and Scotty know his intentions, the message he's left with them going undelivered, but its purpose is largely to hold off further inquiry and keep the rest of the crew from interfering with his business. Uhura's lie facilitates his wishes.

"Well, has anyone hailed them?" Kirk asks testily. "Or have they sent _us_ any communication?"

"How could they get out this far without anybody else noticing?" Sulu mutters to himself, his face turning a slight pout as he leans forward on his elbows. Despite his low tone, the captain picks up on his words.

"That too," Kirk adds, getting out of his seat with all the nervous energy the ship's idling has added to his current irritation. He's not quite pacing, but McCoy is aware that Jim's behavior is bordering on the manic, and suddenly wishes he'd followed through on his threat to carry tranquilizers on his person serially.

"It is possible, captain, that this is simply a routine inspection of our hull," Spock remarks in what can be called the Vulcan equivalent of a sigh. "Perhaps they are, as you would say, killing two birds with one stone: Why make a complete waste of our time when they could greatly decrease our future maintenance requirements by performing a routine check now?"

"I'm pretty sure they'd have sent a whole terabyte of forms for us to sort through if that was the case, commander," McCoy counters on Jim's part, ignoring Spock's repertoire of condescending stares. Looking back at the captain, he notes that Jim is standing between Sulu and Chekov with his hands on his hips, probably in his own little universe. He's probably not hearing a damn word they're saying...

"Ensign, run a quick bio-scan of that shuttle, if they're close enough," Kirk says suddenly, his body conveying even from a distance that he's got a hunch brewing in his skull. "Don't do a thorough job of it, just enough to give us an indication of lifeforms. I want them to think we had a terminal misfire, if they catch it at all..."

"Aye, sir," Chekov replies, quickly skimming his fingers across the surface of his workstation. A series of echoed chirps indicates the rapidity of his work, but little else is apparent until the chirp becomes a trill, data pouring across the crystalline blue surface in a shocking relief of white.

Spock joins Kirk at Chekov's station as the data resolves into a series of evenly-spaced boxes, each including preliminary data on each lifeform: Ten individuals, eight men and two women, only one non-human among them, all between the ages of 22 and 40, with no outstanding medical problems or penal flags. There are no names or personnel files to go with the data; the scan was performed as per the captain's wishes, but the cost of this information had come at the expense of specifics.

Below however, Spock has a fairly good idea as to the identities of most aboard. It is for that express reason he has chosen his current company, and they now await the boarding of their inexplicable guests.

* * *

Lieutenant Lucile Langdon and Specialist Petty Office Haruk Mijnar scramble with their PADDs as ambassador Spock tries to contain his diminutive excitement and focus on what he thinks he already knows. It is physically impossible for any person or persons aboard the shuttle to be from his own time, as no record would exist in the future as to his presence in this alternate past. Simultaneously, it was highly improbable that a past version of his future self (or crewmates) would detect any anomaly significant enough to transport them to this present. Spontaneous rifts and portals were not unheard of in deep space, but for the Enterprise to have wandered into one would have made for an even greater ripple, he deduced, and so had called upon the Lieutenant and Specialist to aid him, as well as acting in liason roles for their visitors.

"Officer Mijnar, have you found any new data generated in the last 48 hours pertaining to the topics we discussed?" Spock asks for the third time since Lieutenant Langdon returned with newer data cards, freshly uploaded from the information mega-base.

"Not as of yet, ambassador," Mijnar replies with only a hint of his former accent. His tightly-wrapped black turban moves like an oddly-colored fishing bobber as he slowly shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the fast-moving data in his hands.

"There seem to be several articles on string theory that have been placed and removed since this morning," Langdon interjects quietly, as if unsure that this information is actually pertinent. "Two of them were written by that physicist, Antony Russo, the one who wrote that bogus theory on space ripples after Vulcan imploded..."

Before Mijnar can respond in the affirmative, the Lieutenant hastily glances at Spock, as if sensing that the topic of Vulcan is not the best course of discussion at present, and the specialist clears his throat thickly before turning back to his studying.

Spock doesn't care too greatly about the matter of Vulcan at present. He doesn't really hear the conversation between the two scientists at all; astrophysicists and cosmologists are highly useful when it comes to working out the science of such events, but for a Vulcan, working out the emotional turmoil before the confrontation is far more crucial.

As he watches through the transparasteel safety of the dock's viewshields, the exterior hatch begins to hiss open.

_Jim...Your name is...Jim..._


End file.
